CYRANO
This feeling that invades me, total and joyous, terrible and jealous. It is truly love, the sad rages, the constant thoughts. And yet it is not selfish. For your happiness I would give my own life gladly, even if you must never know. If it could be that sometimes where I was, no matter how far, I could hear your laughter born of my sacrifice. I fear nothing but your loss. Do you realize? Do you perceive this soul in a shadow? A soul to you the candle that gives me warmth in the chilling darkness and light to see. Without you I am lost forever. This night, this glorious night, is too perfect. It only means for me to die now, with the sight of you trembling like a leaf through branches of jasmine. I love, greater than anyone, I hold the sun in my heart for you, my half soul. You illuminate me, those eyes a beacon to shore. You are my life and in those eyes. I surpass all things, in those eyes love itself could not love as much as I.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
No thank you
I shall never sink to be a musketeer!
What then must be done? Find a powerful protevtor? Seek a patron and, like an obscure ivy that outwits the tree and makes of it guardian as it laps the bark, rising by craft rather than its own strength? No thank you.
Dedicate as they all do versus to fanciers, transform myself into a clown, in the vile mind of seeing, on the lips of a minister, a smile that is not sinister? No thank you.
Make lunch every day of a toad, have a belly that is used for walking, slithering, a skin that becomes dirty fastest on the knees, shed my skin, cultivating a supple spine? No thank you.
I would turn down the apple. Having some forked flattering tongue always in someone’s ear.
A literary lion for a circle of old ladies. A courtier with a fist full of madrigals, filling my ears with the sighs of dowagers. No thank you.
Make the editors print my verse by paying? No thank you.
Get myself the name of pope, by the councils that are held in the cabarets of imbeciles? Work to build the reputation on one sonnet in the place of making others? Discover talent in the mediocre, Be terrorized by vague gazettes? Love to make a visit rather than a poem, draft letters begging for favors, make myself presented?
NO THANK YOU!!!!! NO THANK YOU!!!!! NO THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!
But to sing, to dream to laugh, to pass to be alone to be free.
To have an eye that sees clearly and a voice that vibrates.
But when it pleases me, to wear y hat askew.
To fight, make verse, travel without worry of vain fortunes and fetid glory. Such a voyage I dream of to the moon. To write nothing that does not come out of me. Satisfied with the fruits of my own garden. And, if some chance triumph arise, not be obligated to render anything unto Caesar. Face to face with myself, disdaining to be parasitic ivy, not rising high perhaps, but all alone.
It is my vice, displeasing is my pleasure. I love to be hated. If you knew how one walks better under fire, the volleys exciting the eyes. You, my dear friend, surround yourself in soft friendships, like those Italian collars, Hemstitched and loose so your neck grows feminine. One is more at ease. But me? Hatred each day obliges me to keep perfect posture. A tight collar that forces me to raise the head; each enemy the collar tightens. Hatred is a gallows, but also a halo.
What then must be done? Find a powerful protevtor? Seek a patron and, like an obscure ivy that outwits the tree and makes of it guardian as it laps the bark, rising by craft rather than its own strength? No thank you.
Dedicate as they all do versus to fanciers, transform myself into a clown, in the vile mind of seeing, on the lips of a minister, a smile that is not sinister? No thank you.
Make lunch every day of a toad, have a belly that is used for walking, slithering, a skin that becomes dirty fastest on the knees, shed my skin, cultivating a supple spine? No thank you.
I would turn down the apple. Having some forked flattering tongue always in someone’s ear.
A literary lion for a circle of old ladies. A courtier with a fist full of madrigals, filling my ears with the sighs of dowagers. No thank you.
Make the editors print my verse by paying? No thank you.
Get myself the name of pope, by the councils that are held in the cabarets of imbeciles? Work to build the reputation on one sonnet in the place of making others? Discover talent in the mediocre, Be terrorized by vague gazettes? Love to make a visit rather than a poem, draft letters begging for favors, make myself presented?
NO THANK YOU!!!!! NO THANK YOU!!!!! NO THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!
But to sing, to dream to laugh, to pass to be alone to be free.
To have an eye that sees clearly and a voice that vibrates.
But when it pleases me, to wear y hat askew.
To fight, make verse, travel without worry of vain fortunes and fetid glory. Such a voyage I dream of to the moon. To write nothing that does not come out of me. Satisfied with the fruits of my own garden. And, if some chance triumph arise, not be obligated to render anything unto Caesar. Face to face with myself, disdaining to be parasitic ivy, not rising high perhaps, but all alone.
It is my vice, displeasing is my pleasure. I love to be hated. If you knew how one walks better under fire, the volleys exciting the eyes. You, my dear friend, surround yourself in soft friendships, like those Italian collars, Hemstitched and loose so your neck grows feminine. One is more at ease. But me? Hatred each day obliges me to keep perfect posture. A tight collar that forces me to raise the head; each enemy the collar tightens. Hatred is a gallows, but also a halo.
an old Cyran Poem
She sang for me and me alone
In a chamber with echoes clear
No sin for her I wouldn't atone
Nothing that would engender fear
She sang for me in my sleep
Behind the walls of my closed eyes
Falling far and hard this love so deep
Feeling this love far from wise
But this love is mine I scream
To the gods that would take her
She is my love this dream
And only my kiss could wake her
I'll only have her a short time
In the scheme of things
I'll hold her love woven in my rhymes
and feel all the warmth it brings
For she makes all things right
As she holds me to her breast
There is nothing I wouldn't fight
At her whims simplest behest
This love I feel is true I say
And destined only to last
Her voice an altar to which I pray
When what's past is past
So my goddess listen close
These love are only long ago and once upon
For this queen in brave repose
I'll gladly be her pawn
SO for this love I'll sacrifice
All that I can give
For losing her is worth the price
If happily ever after she live
In a chamber with echoes clear
No sin for her I wouldn't atone
Nothing that would engender fear
She sang for me in my sleep
Behind the walls of my closed eyes
Falling far and hard this love so deep
Feeling this love far from wise
But this love is mine I scream
To the gods that would take her
She is my love this dream
And only my kiss could wake her
I'll only have her a short time
In the scheme of things
I'll hold her love woven in my rhymes
and feel all the warmth it brings
For she makes all things right
As she holds me to her breast
There is nothing I wouldn't fight
At her whims simplest behest
This love I feel is true I say
And destined only to last
Her voice an altar to which I pray
When what's past is past
So my goddess listen close
These love are only long ago and once upon
For this queen in brave repose
I'll gladly be her pawn
SO for this love I'll sacrifice
All that I can give
For losing her is worth the price
If happily ever after she live
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